Cape Town
by CubbiesFan1
Summary: A short fic that takes place in my TRAJQ universe between the 11th Hour and A Daughter's Justice. An I-1 operation is compromised. Race rushes to save his friend.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello. This story is a bit different from some others. For those that have read my more recent fics, this falls into that universe (11** **th** **Hour, ADJ, Deadly Encounters, The Consortium). These events are mentioned by a few characters throughout "The Consortium" fic. I finally decided to write it out for fun. It takes place in the timeline between 11** **th** **Hour and ADJ.**

 **I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing this!**

 **CAPE TOWN**

 **CHAPTER 1**

* * *

With a groan, Phil started to wake. Something had pulled him from sleep and it took a moment for his mind to register that his cell phone was ringing.

Shifting a little, he pulled Alena tighter against his body. The warmth of her skin excited him and he buried his nose into the side of her neck, inhaling her scent and the lilac aroma of her shampoo. Maybe if he ignored the phone long enough it would stop and he could return to enjoying his time with his girlfriend.

Alena scooted back against him, a soft hum escaping her lips.

The phone didn't stop ringing.

"You should probably answer that," Alena said groggily. "Whoever it is clearly needs to speak with you."

"Doesn't mean I want to speak to them," Phil replied. But he planted a kiss on her neck then rolled away from her.

His phone was still in his pants pocket. His pants were somewhere on the floor next to the bed. Their date that evening had been a simple one, just a play and a semi-formal dinner. Phil had wanted to do something bigger for Alena, but his bank account had said otherwise. Alena didn't seem to mind; she'd said she was perfectly happy with just being with him and spending time with him. But he still wanted to do something nicer for her and soon. Most of the time Alena had been able to coordinate her trips to the states to see Phil in conjunction with her work travels. But this time she had come on her own, so Phil wanted it to be special.

But tonight, after they'd left the restaurant and arrived back to his apartment, they'd ended up in bed almost immediately.

With a sigh, he clicked on the lamp on his nightstand. Squinting against the sudden illumination, he spied his pants on the floor. Rummaging through the pile of clothes, he grabbed his jeans and retrieved the still ringing phone. A quick glance at the clock on his nightstand showed the time was just after 2 a.m.

Flopping onto his back on the bed, he answered the call just as Alena was resettling her head on his chest. Her fingers grazed lightly against his chest and abs muscles. Phil's eyes fluttered in response to her arousing touch.

"Corbin," he said into the small cell phone. He had to concentrate to keep his voice steady.

"A mission came up," the voice on the other end said. Phil recognized it as belonging to Agent Blake who was working the GOC that night.

"I'm on vacation for the next two weeks," Phil countered with annoyance. "My paperwork was approved by my section chief and signed off by Director Stephens. Isn't there someone else?"

"Stephens is the one that told me to call you," Blake said, her tone apologetic. "Sorry, Phil."

Phil sighed heavily. Alena's hand had come to rest on his hip.

Phil pressed his eyes shut. "When?"

"He wants you here within two hours ready to go," Blake reported.

"Fine. I'll be there." Phil hung up. He tossed the phone onto the nightstand.

"What's going on?" Alena raised her head and looked into his eyes.

"I don't know for sure, but I've been recalled for a mission," Phil answered. "I'm sorry, Alena. This isn't fair to you. Maybe it'll be something short. Or maybe I can convince my boss to send someone else. They've known about this vacation time for months now."

There was a brief moment of silence before Alena broke it. "When do you have to go in?"

"They want me there in two hours." Phil told her.

Alena responded by kissing his chest. That made Phil smile and when she pushed the blanket back and climbed on top of him, Phil's smile turned into a wide grin. Leaning down, Alena's hips rolled against his and he groaned when their mouths met. His hands framed her face as their kiss deepened, their tongues searching and exploring.

They continued to kiss and caress each other. Sometimes Phil's tongue slipped to her neck. Sometimes she found his earlobe with her lips. And when they finally parted, Phil was fully aroused.

Alena sat up, her hands planted firmly on his chest. Phil's eyes explored her. Her firm breasts with her piqued nipples; her smooth skin and toned legs.

With a smile, Alena purred, "We have plenty of time before you have to leave."

Phil didn't argue. He concentrated completely on pleasing his girlfriend.

* * *

"Sorry about the recall," Blake said.

Phil tossed his gym bag into his chair at his cubicle in the bullpen. Blake had been waiting for him to arrive. Besides her, there was only a couple other agents in the area. At this time of night (or early morning depending on how one looked at it) the agents on duty were in the GOC. It was only 4 a.m. so most agents wouldn't be arriving for another 2 or 3 hours.

"Not your fault," Phil replied.

The love making session he and Alena had shared had been one of the most intense of their relationship to date. He'd worked hard to make it last, to make himself last. And the things they'd done, how they explored each other so intimately, had made Phil's orgasm one of the most powerful he'd ever had. And from how Alena had responded, he knew it had been the same for her own reaction as well.

And when it was over, Phil had half a mind to say "fuck it" and not go to work. Take the reprimand. Take the getting fired. All he wanted was to be with Alena.

But she'd prompted him to get up and get ready, reminding him of his duty to his country, not just his duty to her as a boyfriend. Phil had laughed, kissed her again, and then got ready. And while he'd showered and dressed, she'd brewed him some fresh coffee and made him a breakfast sandwich.

When he kissed her again on his way out of the apartment, he promised he'd make it up to her. And he insisted that she stay for the rest of her time off because he'd hoped to be back before she had to return to Prague. He said he'd check in with her if and when he could, but insisted she not worry about him. He'd be fine. She'd promise to stay until her flight and hoped he'd be back before then. They'd kissed again and then she pushed him out the door, telling him he was already at risk of being late. He'd made it to office just in time.

"Stephens is waiting for you in his office," Blake said, bringing Phil's mind back to the present.

"Yea for me." Phil rolled his eyes.

"Is your girlfriend going to stay? Want me to check up with her while you're gone?" Blake asked.

Phil grabbed his notebook and pen. "She is. At least until her flight back home. And that would be nice of you, Blake. Thanks."

"Bannon should be back in a couple days," Blake said. "We'll take Alena out for dinner and sightseeing."

Phil nodded. "Thanks."

He made his way up to the Director's office.

* * *

The temperature was perfect. A cool breeze drifting in off the sea. Phil had never been to Cape Town, South Africa before, but from what he'd seen so far, he was impressed.

Seated at the outside pool bar of the Lagoon Beach Hotel and Spa, Phil took in his surroundings with keen interest. Dressed lightly in tan slacks and a white button down shirt, he also wore dark sunglasses and an expensive silver watch. His handgun was perfectly concealed in a hidden holster tucked against the small of his back. He had another handgun, an additional ammo, in the gym bag that sat on the floor next to his bar stool.

He was posing as a young Slovak criminal named Stefan Kral. Kral was here to buy military grade weapons from a German named Rolf Ubel. His contact didn't know he was an American intelligence agent. Phil was not to make any arrests, simply buy the weapons, transport them back to the safe house and then I-1 would move in and make the arrests with a full force of agents that were due to arrive soon.

Sipping a local beer, he waited for his contact to arrive. While he waited, he couldn't help admiring the views; both of the scenery and of the number of ladies that were enjoying the pool. Even though he was currently dating, and in his mind madly in love with Alena Stasny, he was still a man, and he couldn't help but look. Look, but never touch. That was his mantra.

But Stefan Kral would look and touch. When he was single he didn't mind this type of undercover work, but now that he had a girlfriend, an amazing girlfriend, it bothered him. Yet he still had to play the part.

And the women seemed to be taking him in as well. A number of bikini clad ladies of multiple ethnicities, with amazing curves, and beautiful hair shot him seductive glances; suggestive smiles. Two climbed out of the pool. Dripping wet, they made a show of walking purposefully past Phil then waggled their fingers, waving, at him. He smiled back.

They took it as a sign. Not bothering to towel off, they giggled to each other as they approached. Shoulder to shoulder, they came over to Phil and smiled. "How about some drinks?" One asked. They were both Caucasian, a brunette and a redhead, and had Russian accents. Their mannerisms made their intentions clear. Kral wouldn't care. And if he was being watched, he had to play his part.

He nodded to the bartender, who had come over and waited. The women ordered and when their drinks arrived they sipped and chewed on the straws suggestively.

"So what's brings you here, handsome?" The second woman, the redhead, asked.

Phil smirked. He's worked on his fake Slovak accent the entire flight over. From now until he got home he'd have to use it.

"Work," he answered.

"Awww," the brunette pouted. "No time for pleasure?"

Phil slid a hand over her hip and pulled her between his legs. "There is always time for pleasure. And the more the merrier, I say."

The women grinned at each other.

A man came up beside him and took a seat. He cleared his throat.

Phil frowned. He held the brunette against him for a second then let go. "I'll find you later tonight. I have business to take care of now."

The women exchanged glances. The brunette leaned down, ran her hand over his neck then whispered into his ear. She made sure her lips brushed his skin when she whispered her room number to him then added, "We'll be waiting…eagerly."

With that they took their drinks and left, but not without stealing glances back at him, winking, and continuing to make suggestive motions with the straws of their frozen margaritas.

Phil glanced at the man briefly before turning back to his beer for another swig. "You're late."

"I imagine you managed to occupy your time, friend," the man replied. His colonial accent pegged him as one of the educated upper elites of Cape Town. He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the two women then back at Phil. "It appears you've already made plans for this evening."

Phil smirked. "I will definitely be occupied."

The man shot him a knowing grin. "I imagine you will, Mister Kral."

Phil replied, "I plan to enjoy my time in your city. Thoroughly."

The man nodded. "Yes."

Phil gave him the once over. A fortyish year old black man with impeccable skin, pearly white teeth and fine clothing, Themba Dube had done well for himself since the end of apartheid. He wore a number of gold rings and a Rolex watch. Phil imagined Dube also made a handsome amount of money as an informant for any number of interested parties in South Africa.

He also knew he couldn't trust Themba Dube. South Africa was still a dangerous place. The power shift at the end of apartheid had benefitted many, but also hurt even more. In the end, the rich had stayed rich and the poor had gotten poorer.

 _Like just about anywhere else in the fucking world._

Phil finished his beer. Leaving some cash under the bottle, he stood and secured his gym bag. "We ready to go?"

"You are in that much of a hurry to see The Flats?" Dube chuckled.

"I'm here for a reason, Themba," Phil countered. "And now that you're here, I'd like to get on with it."

"So be it, friend." Dube sighed. "But I must warn you, The Flats are no place for a foreigner. Especially after dark."

"Well, then let's get our business done before the sun goes down," Phil retorted.

"Yes, let's do so." Dube acquiesced. "Follow me."

* * *

A little over an hour later, Dube maneuvered his SUV through the roads of the shantytown known as The Flats. Residents of The Flats had suffered the most over the decades, unable to escape poverty and crime, they lived their lives as best they could. Lawlessness reigned here and it was the perfect meeting spot for Phil to make the deal with the weapon's supplier he was supposed to meet.

Men, women, and children went about their business, but some of the braver kids chased after Dube's dusty SUV.

"Fucking gutter rats," Dube grumbled.

Phil gave the man a look, but said nothing. He was posing as a weapon's buyer; a man that would be unconcerned with the suffering of the less fortunate. In fact, as Stefan Kral, he'd have the same feelings as Dube.

"Let's just get this over with," Phil replied. "I'm ready to get this filth off of me. And I don't want to keep my evening entertainment waiting too long."

Dube laughed. He pulled the vehicle up in front of a shack made of metal. Two men loitered out front on one side of a crooked, rotten door. Phil didn't see any weapons, but that didn't mean they didn't have some.

"What a shithole," Phil grumbled. Grabbing the gym bag from the floor between his feet he stepped out and slammed the SUV door shut. He was dripping with sweat.

Dube led the way. The two men gave them both a look which Phil returned in kind. They said nothing and went about their business of smoking cigarettes and drinking.

The shack was a makeshift bar. A few tables with chairs were close to the door. A surprisingly well-kept billiards table occupied most of the center of the room with the bar tucked into a dark corner on the right. Beyond the pool table was some more tables and chairs and a door-less threshold that led somewhere deeper into the maze of corrugated metal structures. A number of fans moved hot, musty air around, but did little to cool the place off.

Immediately Phil was on alert. He didn't like this place at all.

Dube led him to the back where a large, muscular black man sat. He chewed on a half of a cigar and drank a clear liquid out of glass bottle with no label. Phil knew it wasn't water; he could smell the reek of homemade booze when he approached. He wore old camouflage fatigue pants and a black shirt. Over the shirt he wore a shoulder holster with a large semi-automatic handgun snapped into the holster. He was clearly a gang leader or some former warlord.

The two men from outside entered and lingered by the pool table. Phil made a mental note of where they stood.

"You must be Stefan Kral." The man waved at the chair across from him. "My name is Demarco Coetzee."

Phil didn't sit.

The big man poured himself another shot. He poured one for Phil and pushed it across the table. "I do not know the ways of you Slovaks, but I doubt you'd be so rude. Sit."

Phil made a show of sitting, but not liking it. He didn't pull his chair back under the table.

"I was told I'd be meeting with Rolf Ubel." Phil sneered between Coetzee and Dube. "I don't appreciate being lied to."

"No one lied, Mister Kral," Coetzee stated. "You meet with me. Then you meet with him."

"I don't have time for this," Phil said. "Just show me the weapons and I'll be on my way."

"Do you have the money?"

Phil hefted the gym bag. He unzipped it a little, flashing the bundles of cash inside. "Where's the weapons?"

Coetzee snapped his fingers. Two more men entered from the hallway. One carried unloaded AK-47s and the other had two LAWs.

"The rest?" Phil said.

"Out back," Coetzee replied. "I could not bring the larger Stingers inside. You understand? Space and all that."

Phil scowled. "Totals?"

"200 rifles, 42 LAWs, and 12 Stingers missiles. And over 100,000 rounds of 7.62mm ammunition."

"I'm supposed to pay Ubel," Phil said.

"Yes, you will," the man chuckled.

Phil flinched. He didn't like that tone.

In a flash, the two men at the pool table attacked. Phil was already on the move, drawing his weapon from the holster at his back. He fired, taking one of the men out, but the other sidestepped and hit Phil in the knee with a cricket bat.

His leg buckled and Phil went down. He tried to recover, but the two other goons had him by the arms and the bat was jammed into his gut. They tore his pistol from his grip.

"What is this?" Phil choked.

"You tell me," Coetzee said. In a flash, the man drew his own weapon from his shoulder holster. He pointed it at Phil. "You are not a Slovak."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Phil spat.

"You should find more reliable confidants." Coetzee turned, pointed his handgun at Dube and fired. The round slammed into Dube's chest, piercing his heart and killing him instantly. The other man never had time to react.

Casually, Dube's murderer strode over to his body and stripped him of his jewelry and watch, jamming the items into the cargo pockets of his pants. He looked back at Phil.

Phil struggled and was rewarded with a swing of the bat against his lower back. He cried out from the flash of pain.

Coetzee laughed. "Not such a tough guy now. But do not fear, I am not going to kill you."

"I'm not afraid of you." Phil spat on the floor.

"You are more valuable alive," the warlord responded.

"What?"

"He means to me."

Phil careened his neck. The man he was after, the German arms dealer Rolf Ubel, appeared in the doorway Coetzee's men had previously walked through.

"What is this?" Phil asked. "This was all arranged!"

"It was," Ubel nonchalantly examined his pedicured nails, "but unbeknownst to you, I had a better offer."

More men scrambled in behind their boss. Quickly, one grabbed Phil's chin while another slipped a gag over his head and into his mouth.

Phil's mind raced. He was in trouble. Deep trouble. And he knew things were about to get a whole lot worse.

"You see, Mr. Kral," Ubel taunted, "I know you are not who you say you are. But what I do not know is who you really are. But I am not too concerned. You will tell me. You will tell me everything."

Phil tried to scream. Tried to make one last attempt to free himself from his captors. He might not make it out of the bar alive if he could run, but at least he wouldn't die on his knees. But they held him in a death grip. Ubel came forward. One of the men handed Phil's own handgun to the German. Phil glared as Ubel hefted it in his hand, then flipped it over and smacked Phil across the face with the grip. Phil waivered from the blow, immediately he felt warm blood streaming down the side of his forehead towards his eyes.

A moment later a canvass bag was slipped over his head. He struggled to stay awake as his mind went fuzzy. The last thing he recalled was being dragged across the grimy floor.

* * *

 **To Be Continued…**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Due to my busy schedule, I've decided to go ahead and post the rest of this fic. I hope you all enjoy! Race gets to shine in this chapter! Thank you!**

 **Cape Town**

 **Chapter 2**

* * *

Race slammed a fist onto the conference table. "What the fuck happened?"

"Calm down, Agent Bannon," Stephens growled. "We don't have all the details yet."

"He never should have been sent solo!" Race shot back, ignoring the Director's glare. Race didn't care. The mission had been sketchy from the get go and now Corbin was missing. No captured; and nothing was being done to retrieve him.

"That's not your call," Agent Weston said.

Race shot the man a look that could kill. Agent Glen Weston was a suck up, plain and simple. And everyone knew the man was pissed that the rumors about Corbin being considered for Director over himself had the more senior agent up in arms.

"You sent him out there, alone, using unconfirmed data. You recalled the man from vacation time and shipped him off into the unknown."

"His skill set and language proficiency was what we needed," Stephens said defensively. "He's the best undercover agent for Eastern European affairs we have. You know it and I know it. We needed a man that could gain the trust of another European."

"This couldn't have waited a week or two? To confirm the information? The sources? To get more men on ground? This is pure incompetence!" Race ranted on.

"Stand down, Agent Bannon! You're out of line!" Stephens shouted. Clearly the Director was fed up with Race's insubordinate behavior.

Race's face burned with anger. He felt Pete Dugger's hand on his arm, pulling him back down into his seat. Race hadn't realized he'd actually stood up during his outburst.

"He wasn't alone," Weston said after Race was seated. "He did make contact with the local informant in Cape Town."

Race huffed and rolled his eyes. "You put Corbin's life in the hands of some shady local."

"Dube's information was solid," Weston objected.

"The guy didn't even know he was dealing with our government," Race stated.

"Corbin knew the risks. We all do," Stephens said.

Race had to bite his tongue at that. He couldn't remember the last time Stephens did field work. The man was a politician, always had been. Most agents couldn't wait till he retired. Race included.

"So what's the plan?" Race asked.

"For what?" Weston said.

Again, Race found himself containing his anger. "For retrieval." He jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached.

"We don't have enough information at this point to launch a retrieval effort," Weston replied. "All we have is satellite imagery…"

"This is fucking unbelievable!" Race shouted.

Weston glared at him. "Satellite imagery of the estate where we think he's being taken. We don't even know if he's still alive. A retrieval operation is too risky. We have to wait till things calm down."

"He's been missing for almost four days. He was abducted almost immediately upon arrival. This reeks of a set up," Race said.

"Regardless,-" Weston started.

Race was back on his feet. He stared down the Director. "You don't want this to get out. I get that. But we cannot leave him there to die."

"He may already be dead," Weston said.

Race shot the man another death stare. "We don't know that. I guarantee if it was YOU out there, Glen, Corbin would be here fighting to get out there and save your ass."

Weston shrunk back and looked away.

Race looked back at the Director. "I'll go get him. Give me a week. I'll make sure it stays under the radar. I'll go get him and bring him back. Dead or alive, he deserves to be brought home. His parents, his sister, his girlfriend. They deserve to know his fate. His country cannot abandon him, sir." Race added the 'sir' as a means to sway the Director.

Stephens' eyes shifted. He tapped a finger on the conference table. After a few moments, he closed the file folder that was in front of him. Race knew it was Corbin's personnel file. Stephen's met Race's gaze. "You have three days. But you go in silent. No identifiers and no back up. You take whatever you can carry on you. You do what has to be done and you get out. Radio silence until mission complete."

"I need a team," Race started.

Stephens shook his head. "A full team is too risky."

"I'm going," Dugger spoke up for the first time. "And like Bannon, I'm not taking no as an answer."

No one argued with the big Cajun.

The last member of the group spoke up. "Same here," Terry Roberts said. "We won't need an interpreter. I know Afrikaans. Reading, writing, and speaking."

Stephens stood. "Then go get our man back, gentlemen. You can make the arrangements for transport and supplies now."

With that Stephens left. Weston followed behind the boss.

Race stared daggers at the men's backs until they disappeared from his view completely. When he looked at Dugger and Roberts he nodded. "Thanks."

"You think I'm gonna let you have all the fun, Bannon?" Dugger smirked.

Race looked back over his shoulder, ensuring they were still alone. When he was satisfied he looked back at his friends. "Can you two make the arrangements? We'll leave as soon as transport can get us in the air."

"You're going to tell his girlfriend, aren't you?" Roberts guessed.

"She deserves to know that something's happened. I won't give her details, but I'll let her know we are going to go get Phil. He'd do the same for any of us."

Dugger slapped Race on the shoulder. "We'll call you from the airstrip when we're ready. Any weapons preferences?"

Race grinned. "Surprise me, big man."

* * *

Watching television, Alena tried to take her mind off the fact that she hadn't heard from Phil. After he'd left the night he'd received the phone call, he'd called one more time before he was getting on an airplane. That had been days ago. She'd promised him that she'd wait for him to return, at least until her flight was scheduled to leave, but she was finding the alone time overwhelming. She'd gotten out during the day, exploring D.C. on her own, yet never venturing too far in case he returned suddenly.

The nights were the worst. She'd barely slept. She'd thought the familiarity of his bed would comfort her, the lingering scents of him on the sheets and pillow soothing, but it had been difficult. Most nights she only managed to sleep a few hours and that was only after clutching his pillow and crying herself into a state of exhaustion.

Part of her mind told her to go home. To be with her family and friends. That she could come back once he returned. She could afford the trips. But she'd made a promise. And she imagined he'd want to see her right away when he got home. She knew she wanted to see him.

She debated straightening up the apartment again, but there wasn't much to do. Phil's apartment was small; just a one bedroom place. The living room area was next to the small kitchen. The bedroom and bathroom down a short hallway that also had an additional closet. It was definitely a bachelor's pad in size, but not in appearance. Phil had mature taste; another thing Alena loved about her boyfriend. He had a sense of style and had decorated his apartment tastefully with scenery artwork and little knickknacks he'd collected during his travels. She knew he didn't have a lot of money, but he'd clearly worked hard to make his living space inviting and warm within his budget.

A knock at the door made her realize she'd zoned out while watching television. Hitting the off button on the remote, she stood. And froze. Suddenly her heart was pounding. Who was at the door? Was it someone for Phil or for her? Had he told anyone that she was here? What if it was someone from his agency? What would she say? What would they say to her?

She didn't want to move. Maybe if she didn't the person would go away. She held her breath. There was another knock.

Alena forced herself to breathe. Then her legs were carrying her to the door. Peering out of the peephole she saw Phil's friend, Race Bannon, on the other side. A short cry shot out of her mouth. She was suddenly consumed with dread. Her hands shook as she reached for the doorknob.

She opened the door. She didn't undo the chain.

Staring out between the gap, she met Race's eyes. He looked worried. She felt tears in her eyes.

 _No._

"Alena, its Race. Do you remember me?" He said. "Phil's friend."

Alena nodded slowly. "Of course I remember you."

"Can I come in? We need to talk."

Her cheeks were wet now. Maybe if she said no, he'd go away. And then Phil would come back and show her that all her fears had been nonsensical.

But she nodded again. She closed the door just enough to undo the chain then opened it and stepped back. Race stepped inside then closed the door.

"I don't have a lot of time," Race started.

"What's happened?" Alena whispered. Her body was shaking.

Race shook his head. Alena felt her knees wobble, but Race reached out and held her upright by the arms.

"He's dead, isn't he?" she hiccupped. "Oh my god…"

"Alena," Race led her to the couch and sat her down. Taking a seat next to her, he held her hands in his. "Alena, we don't know. Something happened and he disappeared. Me and a couple guys are going to go find him and bring him home. We're leaving soon."

"Race," Alena started.

"Alena, I came here to tell you what I know. And while it's not much, I know Phil would not want you kept in the dark. I promise you, I'm going to bring him home. No matter what."

"Do you think…," she couldn't bring herself to say it a second time.

Race seemed to understand. He shook his head, offering a small smile. "Phil and I are good friends. He's like a brother to me. And if I know anything about him, it's that he's a fighter. And I work on the assumption that he's alive. He just needs our help. And I know, when I do find him, he'll be thankful to know that you're okay."

Alena squeezed Race's hands. The fact that his hands were still, not shaking like hers, gave her a certain level of comfort. He wasn't lying to her. He wasn't just saying things to placate her. He actually meant what he was saying. At that moment she knew Race would bring Phil back.

"Thank you," Alena whispered. "Somehow I imagine what you are doing, telling me this, can get you into trouble."

"Just don't tell anyone." Race winked.

That made Alena smile. A beep emanated from somewhere on Race's body. He dropped her hands and reached into his jacket. He pulled out a cell phone, looked at it, then replaced it. "I have to go. The plane is almost ready to leave."

Alena nodded. She wiped her eyes with a knuckle. Race stood and pulled her to her feet. They went back to the door. From his pants pocket he pulled out a business card. "This is Agent Blake's information to include her home number. Also, my fiancée Estella's information in on there too. They're going to check on you and you can call them at any time. Okay?"

"Okay."

Race went to open the door, but Alena stopped him. She wrapped her arms around him, hugging him fiercely. "Please bring him back," she stated against his chest.

"I will, Alena. I promise." He returned the hug.

She let him go. When he'd left, she closed and locked the door. She didn't return to the living room. Instead she headed straight for the bedroom. Throwing herself down onto the bed, she wrapped her arms around Phil's pillow and cried into it.

Eventually, she fell asleep.

* * *

Half a mile from the Ubel's estate, Race pulled the vehicle off the road, concealing it in the tree line.

Sitting in the dark, he kept his voice low. "We ready?"

Dugger grunted. Roberts, night vision goggles over his eyes, studied the blueprints and satellite imagery for the final time. Agent Blake had digitally sent the latest images for which Race was thankful. Race and his two friends weren't the only ones going the extra mile for Corbin.

"Looks like there's at least twenty guards spread throughout the grounds," Terry said. "With the highest concentration near the main house. According to the blueprints, there is an underground wine cellar and basement in the mansion."

"That's probably where Phil is being held," Race concluded.

Roberts nodded. "There's two guest houses near the rear of the estate. Behind the pool area. If Phil's not in the mansion, he could be there. I imagine the weapons could be stored there as well."

"Let's go get Corbin," Dugger stated. Race recognized the anticipation in Dugger's words, he was itching for a fight. Honestly, so was Race.

Exiting the vehicle, they moved quietly to the rear and started donning their gear and checking their weapons. The plan was simple; infiltrate, eliminate, extract, cleanup. But Race knew that the simplest plans always ended up being the most complicated. They only had a rough idea of where Phil was being held and ever since his capture, there had been no communication between those that took him and I-1. By now there should have been demands sent to the agency. Usually those demands were accompanied with some sort of proof of life. So far, there hadn't been any. Race couldn't help but wonder why. Best case scenario was that these people had no idea who Phil really was or who he worked for. Worst case scenario was that Phil was dead already.

He pushed the thought aside. He couldn't allow himself to think like that. He had to stay focused. As Dugger conducted one final check of everyone's equipment, Race loaded his weapon, a short barrel SCAR 16 with suppressor. Dugger and Roberts carried the same, but Dugger also had an HCAR slung over his back. Each man had a suppressed handgun and combat knife in addition to their ammunition, medical kits, radios, and body armor. All in all, Race and the others were carrying around sixty pounds of equipment. Race also had an assault pack strapped to the back of his vest that carried clothing for Phil. Roberts carried the bolt cutters on his vest. They wore black fatigues with no identification markers; nothing that said I-1 or that they were Americans. They didn't even carry identification. If they were captured, they'd be in the same boat as Phil.

When Dugger gave the thumbs up, Race pulled his black balaclava over his head and face then put on his helmet. He pulled the night vision goggles down from the mount. Dug and Roberts did the same. Their eyes were the only parts of their bodies that were exposed, everything else concealed under black clothing and equipment.

Race motioned for them to follow. He headed off towards the estate, staying concealed along the wood line. He was grateful that the moon was obscured this night, their movement aided by an almost zero illumination factor.

He kept a slow pace so they could scan for traps or patrols. They reached their infiltration point within twenty minutes. Race motioned for them to take a knee.

Race studied the low wall of the estate's grounds. He saw two armed men guarding a closed wrought iron gate. Race waited.

Race turned and signaled with his hands. _Two guards._

Dug and Terry acknowledged with a thumbs up.

Race went flat and took aim on the man on the left. Dugger was bearing down on the other. Roberts crawled between Race and the Cajun. Whispering, he counted down from three.

When he reached 1, he paused then said, "Fire."

Race and Dugger fired at the same moment. Their suppressed weapons recoiled and let out short wisps as the rounds exited. Both guards dropped at almost the exact same moment.

Race signaled that he was ready to move. When he received acknowledgement from the others, he popped up and sprinted to the wall. Dugger went with him. They checked the men to ensure they were dead, then quickly dragged the bodies back to the edge of the woods.

Dead men concealed, Race signaled again with a wave of his hand and pointing at the wall. Receiving a pat on the helmet from Dugger, Race sprinted back to the wall to the far left of the gate.

Moments later he was joined by Dugger. Then Roberts.

Race signaled again. Then he was up and over the wall, keeping his body as flat as possible as he slid over the top and onto the other side. He crouched down behind a hedge row that separated the wall from the grounds. Again he was joined by the other two within seconds.

Weapon tucked into the pocket of his shoulder, Race stayed in a tight crouch and started moving along the hedgerow. The night vision aided in the movement and soon he could see they were coming up to turn point.

There was a guard at that point.

The man's back was to Race. His weapon was slung over his shoulder and pointed down. He smoked a cigarette.

Race smirked. He let go of his rifle, letting it hang from the quick release strap on his vest. He pulled his knife and signaled for Dug and Roberts to stand fast.

Race crept up behind the guard. At the last moment, he sprang to his feet, swung his arm around the man's head, clamping down on his mouth to prevent him from crying out.

Pulling the man back, Race rammed his combat knife into the base of the guard's throat. The guard convulsed and as Race brought the guard down to the ground behind the bushes, he waited until he felt life vacate the guard before he let go and pulled his knife.

Race didn't give the man another thought. He cleaned his blade, sheathed it, and took up his rifle again.

Roberts signaled the direction they had to go. Following the wall would take them to the mansion which was currently lit up like a Christmas tree, affecting their night vision. Race observed a few men lingering around the house. Sooner or later there'd be shooting, but the longer they could remain undetected the better chances they, and Phil, had.

On the move again, Race knew they had to find Phil and Race preferred they got to him before all hell broke loose. The guards knew the exact location Corbin was being held. If alerted, they could conceivably get there first and execute him.

 _Not fucking happening._

Race debated splitting up. He could go find Phil himself while Dugger and Roberts eliminated the other guards and cleared the house. He dismissed it. He wanted them to stay together as long as possible.

They stuck close, skirting the edge of the wall to turn the corner. As they approached the large, stone patio, Race's eyes scanned ahead. Three men were conversing on the patio. They stood in a semi-circle as one leaned forward so the man across from him could light a cigarette. They were armed, but just like the guard Race killed along the wall, their weapons were over their shoulders.

Pressed against the wall, Race signaled his intentions. They'd take the guards out then storm the house. Hopefully catching any inside off guard. Dugger and Roberts nodded.

Side by side, weapons at the ready, Race whispered the order. "Fire."

All three agents opened fire, striking and killing the men before they'd had time to react.

Race switched out his magazine and flipped his night visions goggles up. He heard the others do the same. "Move," he ordered.

Weapons still at the ready, the men moved swiftly forward. Race gave the dead men a look, ensuring they were dead. Body and weapon moving as one, he swung to the right and entered the house. They kept close as they breached the mansion.

They were in a large living room area. To the right, couches and chairs faced a fire place with a huge flat screen television mounted on the wall. To the left, an elegant bar and kitchen area. Straight ahead led towards the front of the house. A mix of shimmering white and golden hues assaulted their vision. To Race the place was the typical gaudy interior design that mobsters and criminals seemed to love.

"What the…"

Race was already aiming to the right. Five men had been seated on the couch watching a cricket match on the television. They were dropping their drinks as they rose and reached for their weapons.

Race opened fire.

He heard gunfire from his friends and the subsequent explosions of glass and resulting alcohol stench told Race that Dugger and Roberts were taking out whoever was at the bar.

Race didn't stop firing till all five men on the couch were lifeless, their blood adding to the décor. The television still played. Race hadn't hit that. None of the men had fired a shot.

Reloading complete, Race waved Roberts forward. The lankiest of the three men, Roberts was also the smartest of Race's circle of trusted friends. The man was fluent in multiple languages and was a mathematical genius. Roberts possessed one of those brains that just seemed to catalogue every single fact and detail he'd ever learned and had the ability to recall those facts in the blink of an eye. He took his job seriously, but also had a witty streak that got even the best of the jokesters in I-1. All in all, Terry Roberts was a damn fine agent.

Roberts took the lead. He'd studied the blueprints and knew where the stairs to the wine cellar were supposed to be located. They had to move quickly. Race had to assume more people were in the house and sooner or later these bodies would be discovered. Race's plan was to have Corbin before that happened.

No more gunmen confronted them before Roberts stopped in front of a fine oak door. There was no lock. Race took up the lead again. He pushed the door. Lights were already on. Voices grew closer as they descended the steps. Race couldn't understand the words. He assumed it was Afrikaans, but didn't want to ask Terry. Any noise would give away their element of surprise.

The wine cellar smelled like damp earth. As they entered, Race couldn't help but be impressed. It wasn't just one open area, but a huge area with glass walls and doors sectioning off different compartments. Beyond the glass Race saw floor to ceiling wine racks and almost every single one had a bottle on it.

 _Fucking criminals._

Nobody was inside any of the rooms and the voices came from further ahead. Race led the team down the center hall, passed the custom storage rooms. There was an entryway at the end of the hall; no door. The voices were beyond that. Race motioned for the team to stop and take up positions on either side of the threshold.

The area looked like a storage room. Probably for old crates and such. Race didn't like it. Besides the earthy, wine tainted odors in the air he could smell blood as well. Corbin had to be close.

Race made out at least five to six different voices. They seemed to be joking amongst themselves. He peered around the threshold. He only saw two men around some crates. They were laughing and joking and motioning with their hands. Like they were retelling a tale.

He'd take the men by surprise. Looking back at his friends, Race made his intentions clear.

They nodded.

With a nod, Race readied his weapon and swung into the room. He didn't speak at all. He just opened fire.

He took out the first man. The other managed to avoid the rounds and dove for cover.

 _This is it._

The man started to shout and a moment later others did too. Then they started shooting at the agents.

Race quickly found cover. So did Dug and Terry. The sounds of the enemy gunfire filled the chamber to the point Race could barely hear himself think.

Gritting his teeth, Race waited for a lull. Moving opposite of the way he'd come down, he rolled, popped up to his feet then took aim. The gunmen had not anticipated him popping up somewhere different than where he'd disappeared. He fired. Dugger and Roberts fired too.

Men screamed as the onslaught tore them apart. A few managed to pop off some shots, but they were soon silenced by the agents.

A door slammed at the far end of the large room.

 _Fuck. One got away._

Race couldn't wasted any more time. The gunshots from the guards may have been heard from people above. Race had hoped the sounds had been contained within the cellar, but he couldn't take that chance. That and the fact they'd left a bunch of dead men upstairs watching cricket.

"Move up!" Race yelled as he reloaded in midstride.

He kicked weapons from corpses as he traversed the bloody floor. There was a door.

He motioned at it. It wasn't completely closed. He had flashbangs, but without knowing the size of the room and if Phil was inside, a flashbang going off too close to someone, like next to his head, could potentially be fatal. Race hadn't come all this way to kill his friend himself.

Race waited for his companions. Each one flanked the door. Race kicked it in and stepped forward. Dugger and Roberts swung in low next to him.

It was the room where Ubel did his torturing. The room was square, with concrete walls and floor. From the corner of his eyes, Race saw tables that appeared to be stained with blood and covered in tools. An overturned chair was kicked aside from the center of the room. Hooks and chains dangled from the ceiling. There were other torture devices strewn about, but Race didn't focus on them.

He focused on the two men on the opposite side of the room from him.

A terrified gunman held a handgun to Phil's head. Race breathed a sigh of relief that Phil was alive, but from the condition of his body and the state of the room itself, Race tried not to imagine what kind of hell Corbin had suffered through.

Nearly naked, with his hands bound behind his back, Phil was a mess of dirt, sweat, and blood. He face was drawn and dotted with stubble. His eyes and ears were covered. The only clothing he wore was a pair of boxer briefs. His legs and feet were smeared with blood as well.

One arm wrapped around Phil's throat, the other holding the gun to Corbin's temple, the gunman started to babble incoherently.

Race couldn't understand him, but it seemed Roberts did.

Terry started barking orders at the man in Afrikaans. The man shouted back.

Race kept his weapon trained on the gunman's partially exposed face. "Tell him to drop the gun."

"I'm trying," Roberts growled.

Roberts continued his back and forth negotiations, but they didn't seem to be getting anywhere. The gunman just grew more and more agitated.

Then the man stopped communicating. Race saw the tension in the frightened man's demeanor. He knew what was about to happen. It was clear to the gunman that he wasn't leaving alive so he was about to take Phil with him.

The gunman cocked the hammer.

Race took the shot.

Even with the suppressor, the report from the rifle seemed insanely loud.

The gunman's eyes bulged and his head jerked backwards from the rounds impact. Race's bullet tore through the side of the man's skull. The gunman was dead before the back of his head cracked against the wall where a microsecond prior, his blood and brains splatter had ended up.

The dead man's hold slackened as he fell. But not completely and Phil fell with him.

"Watch the door!" Race said. Dugger responded by swinging back to guard their rear.

Race went forward. First he removed the man's gun from his lifeless hands. Dropping the magazine, he ejected the round from the chamber and rendered the weapon safe.

He tossed it aside then went to Phil. He was shaking and breathing heavily. When Race touched him, Phil started to struggle.

Race pulled the dirty rag from Phil's eyes and ears. "Phil, relax. It's Race."

Phil kept struggling, his eyes squeezed shut. "Get the fuck off me!"

Race placed a hand on Phil's head; Corbin's hair was drenched with sweat and fresh blood. "Phil. Brother. Relax." Race pulled his balaclava down from his nose and mouth. "Open your eyes. Look at me."

Phil's face scrunched, but he slowly worked his eyes open. He flinched, but Race saw recognition slowly form in his friend's gaze.

"Bannon?" Phil groaned.

Race smiled. "Yeah. Come on. We're taking you home."

Race helped Phil sit up. Looking behind the other man's back, he saw his hands were zip-tied. And whoever had done it had tightened the plastic restraints down hard. Phil's wrists and hands were bloodied.

Race shrugged his assault pack off his back. Digging through it, he found a pair of small pliers. Carefully he snipped the restraints apart.

"Can you walk?"

Phil nodded a little. "Yeah. I think so. How long have I been here?"

Race cracked open a small bottle of water and handed it to his friend. As Phil drank it down, Race said, "We'll talk about that later. Fire, let's get the fuck out of here."

Phil finished the water. Race helped him dress in the clothes he'd had carried into the fight for Phil. Black pants, black shirt, and black boots. Just like them. Phil just didn't have any body armor.

"No armor, so stay between us," Race said as he helped Phil to his feet, keeping his hands on Phil to ensure he didn't collapse.

When they reached the door, Dugger and Roberts stood. "Thanks, guys," Phil stated to his friends.

Both men nodded. Dugger handed his SCAR to Phil then swung the HCAR off his back, tucking it into a firing position. "I'll take point," the Cajun announced.

Race hadn't been surprised that Dugger had brought the HCAR for himself. It wasn't the ideal weapon for such a mission due to its weight and size, but Dugger loved that damn thing. Firing .30-06, the semi-automatic rifle would tear through any enemies that awaited them. And now that the Cajun didn't have to worry about stealth, he was ready to unload on those that had done his friend wrong.

"Alright," Race said. "Let's move. I imagine our element of surprise is gone."

"Don't matter," Dugger scowled. "We got Corbin. Let's make the rest of these fuckers pay."

"Bring 'em on." Roberts smirked as he readied his rifle.

When they reached the top of the cellar stairs, Dugger paused and pressed the side of his head and helmet to the door. He waited then looked back at Race and shook his head.

Race nodded. No sound didn't necessarily mean the bad guys didn't know they were here. And they'd yet to see the mastermind behind Phil's abduction. He gave Dugger the go ahead nod.

Dugger pulled the door open. For such a large, muscular man he moved with cat-like grace. In I-1's state of the art gym guys joked that Dug was the "Cajun Rock". Dugger claimed he was actually bigger and stronger than The Rock. No one ever questioned or challenged him on his boasts.

They exited the cellar, Dugger leading the way back to the rear of the house. When they drew closer, they heard the confused and angry shouts of the rest of the household.

Then they were spotted.

Dugger yelled and opened fire on the startled men. The HCAR blasted away, tearing chunks out of furniture, plaster and dry wall, and humans alike. Race flinched when he saw the television explode from one of the rounds.

Then everyone was shooting. Dugger saddled himself up against a corner as he continued to fire. Roberts crouched behind the edge of the previously shot up bar. Race kept Phil close to him and they took turns firing from behind Dugger.

"Kill them!" Someone shouted. "How dare they come into my house."

"That's him," Phil shouted over the gunfire. "That's Ubel. The fucking mark."

Men filtered into the large living area from both the front hall and the outside patio, but they were mowed down almost instantly. Some managed to find makeshift cover behind the shot up furniture or the bodies of their dead comrades, but for the most part, they dropped dead within seconds of confronting the highly trained agents.

"Scheiße!" The German shouted.

Race pegged the voice as retreating down the hall; back towards the front of the house.

"I'm moving up!" Race yelled.

Dugger reloaded then grunted his affirmation to Race.

Swinging under the Cajun's arms and rifle, Race dashed along the shot up wall to the next corner. He stole a quick glance around the edge and was met with an ambush of rounds.

He ducked back at the last moment as Roberts saddled up next to him. "How many did you see?"

"Four," Race reported. "Plus the head honcho."

Roberts went to his stomach. Race crouched down as Roberts crawled up just enough to aim around the wall.

Race swung out and both men fired at the same time. The gunman had been waiting, but their aims were high, just like downstairs. The four guards took the brunt of the onslaught since their boss was behind them.

When his guards went down, Ubel turned and made a mad dash for the front door. Race raised his rifle and fired at the chandelier high up in the vaulted ceiling. Glass shards rained down on the man, forcing him to duck and cover his head to prevent the glass from tearing him apart.

Terry fired at the man himself. His rounds slammed into Ubel's legs and he went sprawling forward, banging into the door then falling backwards.

The rest of the firefight had ended.

Race let go of his rifle and drew his sidearm. "Move up!"

Dugger and Phil joined Race and Roberts. "Dug, Terry, watch the staircase," Race stated as he kept his pistol aimed at the German.

The two agents moved into position.

Leaving a trail of blood in his wake, his legs shot to hell, Ubel was attempting to crawl towards his dropped weapon. Race kicked the pistol away. He planted a boot on the man's back. "Don't fucking move."

The man spat a mouthful of blood. "Fuck you."

Phil was next to him. Race saw his friend staring at his wounded tormentor. Race lifted his foot. He reached down and pulled the German criminal up to his knees.

He howled in agony. "I want a lawyer."

Race laughed. "Oh you're going to need one, pal."

"No. He won't," Phil stated.

Race turned his gaze from the man to his friend. Phil was pointing his SCAR at Ubel's forehead.

"Brother," Race whispered.

"You don't know what he did to me," Phil growled cryptically.

Ubel laughed. "You don't have the balls."

Phil took a step forward. He pressed the barrel of the weapon to the man's forehead. "How do you like it? How's it feel being on the other end now?"

The German hesitated. "You wouldn't. You can't."

"Maybe you should have thought about that before," Phil spat. "Maybe you should have stopped to think how far a man would go when pushed."

"Phil, don't do this," Race breathed. But he made no move to stop his friend. And he wouldn't.

Ubel started laughing again. "Like I said, no fucking balls. See you in court, assho-"

Phil took a step back and fired. The round blew out the back of the man's skull. Race flinched as blood splattered the ground and some landed on his boots. And on Phil's pants.

 _What the fuck did that guy do to you, brother?_

Phil lowered the rifle, placing it on safe.

Race eyed him. Phil didn't look back. Without taking his eyes from Corbin, Race said, "Dug, Terry, clear the upstairs."

Both men moved out. Phil went and sat on the steps, rifle across his legs. To Race it felt like an eternity before the other men returned and reported the house was clear. Race had kept his ears attuned to any sudden changes in sound, but he hadn't taken his eyes off Phil the entire time.

Race watched as Phil stood and went over to the corpse of the man he'd killed. He stared at Ubel's lifeless form, then lashed out with his foot, kicking the dead man's jaw. Then he looked towards Race, Dugger and Roberts.

Phil sighed. "I had to."

Race assumed Phil was talking about the act of killing the man that had kidnapped and tortured him for almost a week.

Dugger snorted. "Fuck 'em. Shitbag took the round in the head during the firefight. That's what I saw. Roberts?"

"Same," Roberts replied immediately.

"Bannon?" Dugger asked next.

Race kept his eyes on Phil, but Phil didn't speak. Race turned to Dugger. "Yep. He took the round in the head during the firefight."

Dugger nodded. "Fucking lowlife scum anyway. Fuck all of them."

Race nodded. "Let's finish up what we have to do here and get the hell out."

"We'll take care of it." Roberts motioned between himself and Dugger.

Phil shook his head. Coming over to the trio, he unloaded his rifle then held out his hand to Dugger. Dugger slapped a fresh magazine into his friend's hand. Phil slammed it into the magazine well and chambered a round. "Destroy the weapons cache?"

Race nodded.

"Back bungalows," Phil said. "That's what I heard him say."

Race couldn't help but smile. As they started to head out, ready to fight in case there were any stragglers, Roberts chuckled. "Wish I could get my hands on some of those wine bottles before we torch this place."

"Nah," Dugger said. "That shit was bought with dirty money."

"Such a waste." Roberts laughed.

* * *

Weapons destroyed, estate set ablaze, the team drove silently back to the secret airstrip. Race had called ahead, reporting the mission status, so when they arrived the specially designed I-1 aircraft was ready to go.

No one in the group really spoke during the drive. Phil had sat in the back with Race while Dugger drove and Terry navigated. Race had kept an eye on him, but Phil didn't mind. He was just happy to be alive. His friends had come prepared with food and water. Phil had sipped the water slowly even though he'd been thirsty as hell. He knew better than to overload. Same with the food. They'd brought oranges and said there was more food on the plane. Again, Phil forced himself to go slow. Race had pointed out that eating the rinds of the fruit would help, so Phil did just that. He'd spit the seeds into a small plastic baggie.

Dugger had driven the SUV straight into the cargo hold where the crew secured it. The agents made their way up to the seating area which was similar in design and comfort to diplomatic transports.

Phil had disappeared into the bathroom to wash as much of the dirt and grime from his body as he could. He was also able to brush his teeth. It was an amazing feeling.

He knew Race was hovering, along with the I-1 medic, just outside the door. After staring at himself for a long while in the mirror, he ran another handful of water over his face and hair. A watery trail of blood ran down the side of his head. He exited.

He was right, they were still there. "I'm fine."

Neither one would hear it. "Standard procedure, sir," the medic said.

Phil sighed then went and took a seat on one of the couches. He stripped off his shirt then let the medic examine him. She was gentle and didn't ask what had happened to him. For that he was grateful. She took care of his head wound first, disinfecting it then using temporary glue to stem the bleeding. She finished it off with a long, sterile bandage.

As she tended his other wounds, she said, "I'm going to give you an IV. You're still dehydrated."

Phil saw no point in arguing.

"Any lower extremity issues you want me to take a look at?" She asked.

"Same as up here," Phil remarked. "Cuts, bruises. I might be missing a couple toenails."

The medic nodded as she listened. "Have you urinated recently?"

In his younger days, Phil probably would have been embarrassed by the question. Not anymore. And he knew this medic: Sheila Morgan. An African-American from the south side of Chicago, she'd joined the Navy as a Corpsman straight out of high school. She 'd served multiple tours attached to the Marines before I-1 recruited her. She was a damn good medic. One of the best. Which was probably why Race brought her. And the two were friends. Phil had overheard plenty of friendly banter between Race and Sheila in regards to the Chicago area baseball rivalry of Cubs versus White Sox fans. Sheila was good people. Just like the rest of his friends with him right now.

And her concern was purely for Phil's health.

"Just now when I was in the bathroom," he answered.

"Any pain? Discoloration other than dehydration indicators? Blood? Discharge? Stuff like that."

Phil noticed his friends were occupying themselves with their own things; giving him what privacy they could even though they could hear the conversation.

He shook his head. "No discoloration or anything else like that. But there was some pain."

"Let me take a quick look to make sure there's no serious injury. The doctor back at headquarters will want to know." She switched out her blue latex gloves.

Phil managed a weak laugh. "I'd like to know too."

"If you're not comfortable, Agent Corbin," she started.

Phil shook his head. He knew everyone on this plane was here for him. To help him. "No. It's okay."

Moving a little, he unbuttoned his cargo pants and pulled them and his boxer briefs down just enough for Morgan to take a look at him.

She conducted her exam professionally. Phil didn't have to clear his mind as she touched and examined his genitals. There was absolutely nothing sexual about this.

When she finished she said, "Okay, you can pull your pants back up."

"So?" He asked as he pulled his clothes up and buttoned his pants.

"There's some bruising," she remarked.

"I was hit and kicked multiple times," he explained. He felt like he needed to explain that.

"That's probably the cause." She motioned for him to sit back down. She pulled her gloves off then made annotations in her notebook. "I don't see anything that gives me concern. And there's no unusual swelling which is a good sign. However, I do recommend that at some point during your recovery process you get tested to ensure there's no permanent damage."

Phil nodded. He did want to have kids someday. He'd make sure to get tested.

He put his shirt back on and pushed up his right sleeve so Morgan could give him the IV, which she was now preparing.

At the same time the co-pilot entered. "We're ready for take-off."

When Morgan finished with the IV she looked at the co-pilot. "He's ready." To Phil she said, "Try not to move too much. You have a broken nose and some fractured orbital bones. Not to mention the rest of your wounds. But no signs of a lasting concussion, so you can sleep, which I highly recommend. Doctor Martinez will be waiting to give you a full exam when we land. I'll send him my initial report so he has it ready."

The co-pilot gave Phil a sympathetic look then headed back to the cockpit. Morgan gathered up her kit. "I'll be in the cargo area with the crew chief if you need anything. I'll come back in a couple hours to check your IV."

"I should be fine," Phil said. "Thanks."

She smiled at him then left.

The four men sat in silence as the plane took off. They were airborne for a while before the co-pilot came back out. "We're in safe airspace now. Relax. We'll let you know when we're getting ready to land."

Race nodded. "Thanks."

"Of course," the co-pilot replied. He looked at Phil. "Glad you're still with us, brother."

"Likewise." Phil chuckled. He looked at the co-pilot. "Thanks for coming to get me, Rich. All of you actually. Seriously. Thank you."

"Just like Bannon and these two," the co-pilot jerked a thumb at Dug and Roberts, "we wouldn't have taken no as an answer. We'd have taken off regardless. With or without Stephens' approval. The second Roberts called us we ramped up. No questioned asked. No one complained. In fact, I had to turn a couple guys on the crew away."

Phil smiled and nodded.

"Get some rest," the co-pilot stated then departed.

Phil stared at the floor for a long while. His friends were quiet. Leaning back, he rested his head against the bulkhead, his eyes closed. He started to speak. "It felt like a set-up. They mobbed me at the meet up point. Killed my contact in cold blood then stole his valuables. I was gagged and knocked out. Woke up in that room where you found me. The beatings started the moment I woke. They questioned me. I don't think they knew I was I-1. All they knew was that my cover was bullshit. When I didn't talk, they beat me harder."

Phil sensed movement near him. Straightening his neck and back, he opened his eyes. Dugger was standing next to him. The Cajun held a flask in his hand, offering it to Phil. "Mission accomplished, brother. I won't tell Sheila if you don't."

The right edge of Phil's lip curled upward. He took the flask and upturned it against his lips. Whiskey. It burned going down, but it was a welcome burn. When he finished, he took another drink. He handed the flask back to Dug. Dug placed a comforting hand on Phil's head for a brief moment then took a swig from the flask. He handed it to Race as he sat back down opposite Phil. The flask went to Roberts next. It kept moving between the four men.

"They did lots of different things. Waterboarding. Clamps. Other physical stuff too. But when those tactics didn't work for them they started on the mind games. They never let me sleep. Whenever I was on the verge of passing out they'd beat me some more to keep me awake." He paused then lowered his voice. "He threatened to castrate me. Told me I'd never be a real man ever again. He even pressed a knife against me a bunch of times. One time they blindfolded me before he pressed the knife so hard I thought he was actually cutting me. His thugs poured some liquid in my lap as he did it. Made me think I was bleeding. It was all a sick mind fuck."

"Glad that piece of shit is dead," Dugger growled.

Terry and Race both nodded and grunted their agreements.

The flask was back in his hand. He took a long drink. Phil couldn't stop his words, even though his next reveal was one of the hardest for him to relive. "A few times he said he was going to rape me. Said I wasn't a real man and he'd prove it. Said he was going to fuck me then let his men do the same. One time the guards pinned me down against a table and pulled my underwear down. Held my head to the side and pried my eyelids open, forcing me to watch him fondling himself like he was going to do it."

"Now I wish you hadn't killed that motherfucker," Dugger snarled. "I want to do have done it myself."

"That was owed to Phil," Roberts said after taking a swig of the flask and passing it back over to Phil.

Phil took a short drink. "He never did though."

The flask kept moving.

"Phil, damn, man." Race shook his head.

"How long was I there?" Phil asked.

"Almost a week," Race answered honestly.

"Why did only you three come? Why not a full extraction team?" Phil wanted to know.

Race shook his head. "Stephens. And fucking politics."

"Even if he said no to us, we would have come anyway," Dugger said. "Would have stolen a fucking plane if we had to in order to come get you."

"Damn right," Roberts said.

"It wasn't just us though," Race said. "Blake and a few others back at the GOC fed us up- to-date intel on your location. Add in Morgan and this bird's crew and you clearly have more friends than Stephens or that snake Weston."

Phil assimilated the information. He went silent again for a while before continuing to relay what happened to him. "Ubel would also come in and put a gun to my head then squeeze the trigger. Sometimes it was a semi, sometimes a revolver. One time he pressed it to my head, cocked the hammer, and I watched as he ever so slowly put pressure on the trigger. He kept asking me who I was. Saying I should confess and he'd let me stand up so I wouldn't die on my knees like a coward. I refused. He pointed the weapon away and fired. It was loaded that time. I guess he wanted to show that he had power over me. Over my life. And he could end me at any time."

No one spoke after that. Dug refilled the flask from a small bottle in the mini-fridge next to the couches.

Phil took one last drink they asked, "You guys got a secure phone? I'd really like to call my girlfriend."

Race retrieved one from his bag and handed it to Phil. "We'll move up front. Give you some privacy."

Phil nodded. The compartment wasn't that big and there was no way they wouldn't be able to hear him, but he knew his friends would zone out and not eavesdrop on his call. That's just how they were. Even if they did hear his call, he didn't care. He trusted them unconditionally. They'd risk not only their careers, but their lives for him. That's why he'd confessed to them. They had a right to know what they'd risk so much for. For him. And he knew that his secrets were safe with these three. They'd never tell. Not what he'd done in the mansion or what he'd told them had happened to him.

They weren't his blood, but they were still his brothers. And brothers fought for each other, no matter what.

* * *

Standing in front of his apartment door, Phil found himself hesitating. He knew Alena was inside and he desperately wanted to see her. Hold her. Comfort her. But he was scared. Scared that she'd reject him. See his wounds and turn away in disgust.

 _No. She's not like that. She'll understand._

Yet how could she understand if he wasn't ready to tell her what happened to him. The entire drive home he'd ran over the scenario in his head a thousand times. What would he say? What could he say? He couldn't talk about the mission itself, but he could tell her something. He had to tell her something. He owed her that much.

The medical exam and debriefing had drained him. He was tired. Stephens and Weston had interviewed Phil apart from the others. They'd been sympathetic and even relieved that he was alive. But Phil couldn't help wondering if their relief was truly for Phil or more for the fact that they hadn't lost an agent on a foolish, poorly planned mission. By the end of the debrief, Phil hadn't cared. He'd just wanted to go home. They gave him his vacation time back, with additional free time off to make up for the days he'd spent in captivity.

Phil rolled his eyes. _How generous of them._

That gave him a little boost. He wouldn't have to see Stephens for over two weeks. And he sure as hell wasn't answering his work cell during that time. Fishing his keys from his pocket, he worked them into the lock and opened the door.

When he stepped inside, he turned and locked the door straight away, securing all the latches. Then he dropped his gym bag on the floor under the coat rack. When he looked up, he saw Alena standing near the couch. Her face was a flux of emotions, but the one that stood out, the one Phil could interpret, was relief. Real relief, not the fake kind like from his superiors back at I-1.

"Hey, nádherné," he said, calling her by the Czech word for gorgeous.

"Hey," she replied shakily. She came towards him. She moved cautiously. He met her half way, which in his small apartment, wasn't very far.

She reached up and placed a hand on his cheek. The contact melted all his fears away. He nuzzled his head against her hand, absorbing her touch. His eyes closed. His arms went around her waist as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

Phil buried his face into the side of her neck. "I've missed you so much."

"I've miss you too," Alena responded, her voice choking up.

"I'm so sorry, Alena," Phil confessed against her neck. "You didn't deserve to be put through all this. I'm sorry. Please forgive me."

Alena's fierce hug tightened. Phil never wanted to let go. But when she pulled back a little, her hands going to his face, he leaned back and kept his hands on her hips. She stared into his eyes. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Phil."

"I,-" he started.

But he couldn't finish his words because at that moment Alena crashed her mouth against his. He opened up to her briefly and the kiss deepened, but only for a short moment. He pulled back and stared into her eyes.

And then he leaned in and kissed her again. This time he did push his tongue deep into her mouth. She met his passion with as much vibrancy of her own. Then her hands were sliding off his face, pushing his jacket off his shoulders. He shrugged out of it. He broke the kiss only long enough to pull his shirt up over his head. He tossed it aside and immediately went to work on Alena's blouse. Her moans grew louder and he responded by pressing his hips against hers. He turned her in his arms and started pushing her back towards the bedroom. Her shirt disappeared somewhere in the hallway.

She'd left one of the lights on in the bedroom. Spinning, Alena pushed him back against the wall. Her fingers were working the notches on his belt. He helped her. When it was loose, she unbuttoned his pants and pulled down the zipper. Her hand went into the waist band of his boxer briefs. She found him.

A deep rumble escaped his chest when she touched him. He never thought he'd feel her touch again. Phil got her bra off as she kept stroking his arousal, her hand moving faster the more excited she got.

Phil lifted her from her feet and stumbled over to the bed. He set her down without breaking their kiss, however a moment later he did just that. He grazed his tongue over his lips before lowering his head to her breasts. He heard her breath hitch when he took one of her erect nipples into his mouth. She moaned, a hand stroking his hair. He switch to her other breasts while his hands pushed his own pants down. He broke contact with her only long enough to reach down, pull off his shoes and socks, and remove the rest of his clothing. Then he was on her again, pulling her own jeans and panties from her hips and legs.

He climbed over her to enjoy the taste of her breasts again. As her excitement grew beneath him, hers hands explored his hair, then his muscled back and shoulders. He gave each of her breasts a bit more attention then started trailing kisses down her flat, taught stomach.

"Phil," she gasped in anticipation of his actions.

"I thought I'd never be with you again." He looked up into her eyes. "But I'm glad I was wrong."

They spent the rest of the evening reconnecting, physically and emotionally. They explored every inch of each other. They made love multiple times throughout the night, reaching new heights of pleasure. And when they both were equally spent, they'd fallen asleep wrapped up in each other's arms.

And when the sun poked through the curtains of his bedroom window, Phil woke to Alena still in his arms. She shifted against him when he moved a little and her groggy eyes cracked open.

"That's the best sleep I've had in some time," she moaned against his chest.

"Me too," Phil replied. He planted a kiss on the crown of her head. "Good morning."

She titled her head to look up at him. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm good," he grinned. "Real good after what you did to me last night."

"Likewise." She smiled and snuggled closer to him. "Just remembering," she shivered playfully.

"Alena," he whispered. "Alena, I love you so much."

"I love you too, Phil," she said before kissing him. "More than anything."

He sighed.

Something in that sigh made her look up at him. "Phil?"

"Alena," he said. "I can't say much, but I will say that some bad things happened to me while I was gone."

"Phil, I'm here for you. Whenever you're ready to talk, I'm here for you. I won't pressure you. I love you and I want to be here for you."

"I love you too, Alena," Phil said again. "I meant to tell you last night, but we got a little distracted. They gave me more time off."

She laughed lightly at his 'distracted' comment. "Then I should get on your computer and change my flight. That's if you want me to stay."

"I want nothing else." Phil looked down at her. "I wasn't sure how to ask you to stay with me for a while longer. I don't want to be alone right now."

"You're not," Alena replied. "We'll figure it out as we go."

"You know what I could go with right now?" He said. "A good, hearty American breakfast. Eggs, bacon, coffee, pancakes. The works. There's that diner you said you liked just down the road."

Alena pecked his cheek. "Wanna work up a bit more of an appetite before we get ready?"

Phil smiled. "Oh yes. Definitely yes."

* * *

 **To be Continued...**


	3. Epilogue

**Cape Town**

 **Epilogue**

* * *

Phil stared at the man in the mirror. The face that stared back at him was his own. Yet it wasn't. The last three months had been some of the most difficult months of his life and as much as he desired to return to who he once was, he just couldn't. And at this point, he wasn't sure he ever would. He'd been so happy when he'd returned home; after his friends had risked their lives to retrieve him. But that happiness had quickly faded; replaced with depression, nightmares, and shame.

The physical scars had healed, but he still suffered from the beatings he endured. From the torture he'd survived. He pressed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, the reflection hadn't changed.

Scowling, he grabbed the prescription bottle of heavy duty pain killers. They were meant for his headaches, but he seemed to depend on them for everything. They dulled the throbbing in his skull; and his emotions too. He was fine with that. Because the emotional scars had yet to heal.

He downed two of the pills with a glass of water then splashed handfuls of cold water on his face. He'd been cleared for field operations again starting the following week and he had to be ready. He'd convinced his section chief and his doctors that he was fully recovered. Being one of the best undercover field agents in the agency had given him the right skill set.

The emotional healing would have to wait.

Clicking off the bathroom light, he headed back for the bedroom but noticed the living room light was on. He tensed on instinct. Was someone in the apartment? He hadn't heard anything. Shaking his head, he stalked silently towards the front room. His muscles were taught. His hands balled into fists.

When he peered around the wall, he saw Alena sitting on the couch.

Phil blinked. He looked back over his shoulder towards the bedroom. Then back to her. She must have gotten up when he did. But why? He forced his body to relax.

"Alena?"

She looked at him. Her face was drawn. Tired. And sad.

"Alena, what's wrong?" he asked. He wanted to go to her, but his legs refused to move. Her expression frightened him.

"Phil," she started, but looked away.

"What's going on?" He prodded. "Are you not feeling well? Are you sick?"

Alena's head shook from side to side. She sighed heavily. When she spoke, her voice was shaky. "Phil, I..."

Phil willed his legs to move. But he only took a few steps. Something about her demeanor stopped him from sitting next to her. He stood at the edge of the couch, between it and his arm chair. "Tell me what's wrong."

She didn't look at him when she answered. "I'm going home, Phil."

He knew that. Her flight departed later in the morning. "Right, but it won't be that long before we see each other again."

She did look at him then. "No. You misunderstand me, Phil. I'm going home for good. I'm not coming back."

Phil's felt like he'd been hit with a sledgehammer. He sank down into the arm chair. "What? I don't understand. I promise I'll have enough money so I can come see you next..."

"Phil, don't." her voice was even shakier. She was holding back tears. "I can't do this anymore."

Phil inhaled. Quietly he said, "You're...breaking up with me?"

"Phil,-"

"Why? I thought..."

She cut him off. "It's all been too much. I can't handle it anymore. I thought I could, but I can't. And last night...when you told me you were going back into the field...and how disappointed and angry you got when I said you shouldn't."

"It's my job, Alena!" He said incredulously.

"Your job is what did this to you!" She looked away again. Now she wasn't holding back with the tears.

"I'm the same person," he whispered. Yet he didn't even sound convincing to himself.

Wiping her tears, she looked at him. "No you're not, Phil."

He felt his face burning. "You don't know what happened, Alena."

Now she nodded. "Because you won't tell me! Phil, I've been here for you. I've stuck with you. Through the nightmares, the sleepless nights, the angry outbursts. The silent nights where you just stare distantly at...at I don't even know what it is you see."

Now Phil looked away. He'd wanted to open up to her. To tell her what he'd gone through, but how could he? How could he confess something that he felt made him feel like less of a man?

"Alena,"

"Just now," she motioned to the hallway with her head, "you woke up from another nightmare. You were thrashing. Sweating. But you didn't turn to me for help. You went for those damn pills."

"They're for the headaches. Pain killers." But when he said it, he knew he was just making excuses.

"You depend on them, yet you won't confide in me. Those pills are destroying you, Phil. And I can't watch you go down that road. I can't watch you slowly kill yourself with those things."

His hands trembled. He placed them on his knees to try to steady them. "What can I do to convince you to give me another chance?"

"I've given you all I have, Phil," she replied through a new wave of tears. "But...there's more..."

"What does that mean?" He asked.

"I've been patient. I've tried to help. But...but what happened to you has affected me as well. Yet you never noticed my pain. You've never even asked. And I'm not saying that it is in any way the same as what you suffered, but I can't keep dismissing my own emotional health any longer."

He looked into her eyes. For the first time he really saw how much she was hurting. It made him feel horrible. "Alena, I love you. Please. I'm so sorry. I'll do better, I swear. Please. I need you." He dropped his head, burying his face in his hands.

He heard her scoot closer to him. She touched his arm, drawing his gaze towards her. "Phil, I love you too. And I always will. That will never change. But I can't be with you anymore. I'm sorry."

His own eyes were wet now. "I should have never answered that damn phone call!"

"There would have been other calls, Phil. You know that. What you do for a living is so honorable. It really is. I could never do it. It makes you a special type of man. But you need help, Phil. Help that I can't give you. I've tried, but I just can't."

"Alena...please...I don't know what I'll do without you," he pleaded.

She rubbed his arm. He tried to stop his tears. She didn't stop hers.

Eventually he said, "What if I give up the pills?"

"I'm sorry, Phil." She stood and moved away from him.

He stared at the floor for a few moments then looked at her. She'd moved to the door. Her bag was there. He hadn't noticed it when he first came into the room.

This was it. She was leaving him. Inhaling deeply, he stood. He wiped at his face as he went to her. She didn't shy away.

"I'm sorry, Alena. I'm sorry its come to this. I'm sorry I didn't see the ways I was hurting you before it became too much for you. But I meant it when I said I love you. And I know it won't change things, but I want you to know that when I was held captive...the thought of returning to you was what stopped me from giving in. The thought of you kept me alive. Kept me going. Fighting."

Her tears started again. "Phil,"

"Let me finish," he said. "I'm not telling you this to get you to change your mind. I can see your mind is already made up. It hurts...god, does it hurt...but...but I respect your decision. I do love you, Alena. And that's why it hurts so much. I'm losing the woman I love because I was too blind to see that I wasn't the only one suffering. I'm going to work to get off the pills. And maybe...in the future...when our paths cross again, you'll see that you did help me. Saved me. And that's why I'll always love you, Alena."

She was full on crying now. Phil reached out and pulled her against his chest. She returned his embrace, clutching fists into the back of his white undershirt. "I love you too, Phil. And I'm so sorry," she cried into his chest.

Their embrace lasted longer than he'd expected, but eventually she pulled away. She placed a hand on his cheek, briefly, then picked up her bag and purse. "My taxi is probably outside. Goodbye, Phil."

"Goodbye, Alena," Phil breathed.

And without another word, she was gone.

 **THE END**

 **A/N: Well, this was short (it was never meant to be a long story). I hope those that read have enjoyed it. A different side of the JQ universe we all love!**


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